


Bedside Manner

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dammit Westfahl, Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7806778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Soldier is programmed to care for the sick.  He's sure of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Врачебная этика](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8051686) by [anthonine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthonine/pseuds/anthonine)



“You’re sick,” says the asset. His voice is accusing.

 _No shit,_ Rumlow thinks. He tries to ignore the tickling in his throat, the way his sinuses feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. Of all the times to catch a cold, it just _had_ to be on the onset of a mission with the eagle-eyed perfectionist Winter Soldier. The asset’s enhanced ears might even be able to hear the crud in Rumlow’s lungs. Perfect. He’ll probably say Rumlow jeopardized the whole operation in his mission report to Pierce. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sick,” the asset repeats, scooting closer. Rumlow’s just lucky that Rollins is up by the Quinjet’s controls with Murphy; if Jack saw the asset acting like a creepy mother hen, he’d never let Rumlow hear the end of it.

“I’m _fine,_ Soldier. Sit down.” His voice is rasping but authoritative, and for a second the asset looks like he’s buying it. So of course that’s when the tickle in his throat becomes unbearable and Rumlow bursts into a coughing fit. His eyes are watering, but he can still make out the asset’s almost triumphant expression.

He spends the rest of the flight swatting the asset’s hand away from his forehead, snapping every time that he doesn’t have a fever, damn it. He can hear Jack’s laughter from the front of the jet.

Great.

*

“We need to review the mission briefing.” Rumlow drops the dossier on the table. The asset shoves a mug across the table at the same time, sloshing a few drops out. They soak into the corner of the papers and Rumlow feels his eye twitch.

“Drink,” the asset demands.

“I give the orders, Soldier.”

The asset actually crosses his arms like a petulant child. “You must stay hydrated. It is imperative for your health and for the mission.”

“I can take care of myself!” Rumlow snaps.

“Drink.”

The mug may have been white once, but now the glaze is yellowed. There are words printed on the side and Rumlow picks the damn thing up to read them. _World’s Greatest DAD!_ The asset must have found the mug at the back of some spider-filled cabinet in this rotting safe house. There’s a steaming green liquid inside; Rumlow doesn’t want to know where the asset found _that._ “The hell is this?”

“Green tea,” says the asset. “It is full of antioxidants.”

“I had some in my pack,” Murphy explains, walking through the kitchen with his arms full of computer equipment. “It was just teabags, though. It’s better loose but there wasn’t room for my diffuser—”

“Shut the fuck up and get back to work, Murphy.”

The rookie scampers out of the room.

“Drink,” the asset repeats, his arms still crossed.

“The Secretary put me in charge of this mission, Soldier. You don’t give the orders.”

“Did the Secretary know you were unfit to command when he assigned you?” the asset asks. “Should I tell him that you refused to acknowledge your malady and put the mission in jeopardy?”

“Listen here, you little shit—”

The asset just raises a brow.

Rumlow can feel threats and insults rising in his throat, only choking them back by taking a swig of the bitter, steaming tea. “ _There._ Now shut up and focus.”

And the asset just nods, the bastard.

*

Rumlow hates the missions where the asset goes out alone.

There’s too many variables outside of Rumlow’s control, even with the surveillance Murphy’s set up. He needs to be there in the thick of it, seconds away instead of miles, able to intervene if shit goes south. Not that it will. And even if it did, Rumlow’s not delusional enough to think the Winter Soldier needs his help. The STRIKE team’s just a bunch of glorified babysitters when the asset’s out, there to keep him calm and stay out of his way.

But this is still Rumlow’s team, damn it. This is his mission, and it’ll be his head on a platter if things go bad. Pierce put _him_ in charge and there’s a thrill to that, knowing that he’s trusted with HYDRA’s most powerful weapon, even if that weapon is an unbelievable pain in the ass. Rumlow ought to be out there with him, making absolutely sure that everything goes according to plan.

Besides, being out in the field would get Rumlow’s adrenaline up, and maybe that would finally get his sinuses flowing. The pressure in his head just keeps mounting. As soon as they get home, he’s taking all the Sudafed he can legally buy.

“Your breathing has not improved,” someone says from behind him, making Rumlow jolt. “Have you been drinking the tea in my absence?”

“Jesus Christ, Soldier!” The radio slips from Rumlow’s hands and clatters against the floor of the deck. He’d stepped outside of the stuffy room they’d set up as the center of operations, hoping the fresh air would help to clear his head. Why hadn’t any of the idiots still in there said that the asset was on his way back? “You’re supposed to announce your presence!”

“I did,” the asset says, brow creasing. “Your middle ear spaces are likely blocked with the same fluid obstructing your breathing. Perhaps your eardrums should be punctured to prevent infection and permanent hearing loss.”

He says all this with his favorite knife still in his hands, the little creep. “Stay the fuck away from my ears,” Rumlow orders. What is _wrong_ with the asset? He’s never been this weird before, and that’s saying a lot. Did he used to have programming to serve as a field medic that’s somehow been dragged back up? “Mission report, now.”

“I will deliver the report after you’ve had soup,” the asset says, wiping the blade clean against his pants.

“There’s no soup, dumbass.”

“Then I’ll make soup.” And with that, the asset marches inside, ignoring every word that Rumlow barks after him.

*

Rumlow spends the flight back praying for death.

There’s a terrible crick in his neck because the asset insisted that Rumlow sleep with every last pillow in the safe house under his head. Something about improving his congestion as he slept. Not that Rumlow got more than an hour of sleep thanks to the asset continually barging in with newer, stupider home remedies.

First there had been the “soup,” which consisted of water mixed with a bunch of mashed up MREs, as well as some rotting potatoes that the asset had found god knows where.

“I cut off the rotten parts,” the asset had insisted.

“With the knife you used to gut the target!” Rumlow had fired back.

After that, the asset had tried to shove a teapot’s worth of almost boiling salt water up Rumlow’s nose. It burned like hell, and his nose is still stinging now. Though that might be due to the way his skin’s all chafed up because the asset forced Rumlow to blow his nose with one-ply. And later, once Rumlow had pitched a fit, with Westfahl’s socks.

Murphy’s socks—“They’re extras and they’re clean, boss, I swear!”—had been soaked, microwaved, and then plastered against Rumlow’s face, right under the eyes. Somewhere in there, a pot of steaming water had been shoved under his chin while the asset draped a towel over his head and made Rumlow breathe the steam. Rumlow could feel his hair sticking and curling against his skin the whole time. He must look like hell now.

And he’d had to gargle with salt water and spend the night roasting under every moth-eaten, mildewed blanket the asset could find.

“You’re going to kill me, Soldier,” Rumlow had said in the morning when the asset tried to force what had to be the hundredth cup of tea down his throat.

“I won’t.” The asset’s eyes had blazed; Rumlow could see the determination that always flared up before missions, but there was something else. Something he couldn’t place, couldn’t ever remember seeing, and that scared him. “You won’t die, Commander. You’ll recover.”

After that, Rumlow had chosen to suffer in silence.

Now, finally, the plane is beginning to descend. Rumlow can tell without even opening his eyes because the pressure in his ears is steadily growing from annoying to unbearable. “Fuck.”

“Don’t expect me to make you soup when the Soldier’s back in ice,” Jack says, zipping up his pack. “ _I’m_ not programmed to give a damn about your health.”

If Rumlow didn’t feel like total shit, he might punch Jack for being a smartass. As it is now, he just shakes his head. “He’s not programmed to do that either. Something’s wrong.” Rumlow’s taking the asset to the lab techs before they can freeze him again. Irregularities can’t be taken lightly, not with the asset. Shrugging them off could get someone killed.

The second they’re on the ground, the asset seizes Rumlow’s wrist, moving so suddenly and forcefully that he nearly dislocates Rumlow’s shoulder. “The hell are you doing?”

“You must see the medics,” the asset says. “Your condition is not improving and requires more thorough investigation.”

“It’s a cold, dumbass.” Rumlow drags his heels against the asphalt. “We’re not going to the medics. You’re gonna give your mission report to the Secretary, and then the techs are gonna figure out what’s fucked in your head now. Let go.”

“I will give my report after you have received medical attention.”

Rumlow drives the heel of his boot against the asset’s knee, but he might as well have kicked the prosthetic for all the reaction he gets. “Let go, Soldier!”

And that’s how Rumlow ends up dangling over the asset’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, whisked off as if he’s an unruly kitten. _Christ_ , and he thought the pain in his head was bad before he was inverted. Rumlow shuts his eyes, wondering if he can just die of shame. Probably not. Humiliating as this is, it’s not the lowest moment of his life.

That is, until they’re halfway to the infirmary and Rumlow can hear Pierce asking, “Soldier, what are you doing with Commander Rumlow?” He sounds amused. God fucking damn it.

“Sir,” Rumlow says, immediately struggling to get free and making no progress, “the Soldier’s—”

“The Commander fell ill during the mission and requires immediate medical care,” the asset explains, although he’s stopped now, standing as close to at attention as he can get with Rumlow over his shoulder.

“Has he now?” Pierce asks. Definitely amused.

“It’s just a cold, sir,” Rumlow protests. “Listen, the Soldier needs an examination from the lab technicians. He’s acting out of his parameters and—”

“A cold can turn into pneumonia!” The asset sounds concerned. Almost _scared._ His hands tighten around Rumlow’s hips, bruising into his flesh, and Rumlow can feel the asset’s breaths quicken. “Or weaken his immune system and leave him vulnerable to influenza or meningitis or diphtheria! It could leave him open to anything! He needs medical attention, please!”

Diphtheria? What the hell? The last time Rumlow heard anyone mention diphtheria, it was in some old black and white movie that Murphy had forced everyone to watch at the Christmas party. Damn it, if Murphy’s been showing movies to the asset again—

Rumlow catches a glimpse at Pierce and feels his blood run cold. Pierce doesn’t looked amused anymore; he looks concerned. And when _Pierce_ looks concerned around the Winter Soldier? That probably means a bloodbath is inevitable. Rumlow’s never seen Pierce look anything but calm around the asset, no matter what the situation.

“All right, Soldier,” Pierce says easily. “You’re right, it’s not something to be taken lightly.” The asset’s chest stops heaving at that, and Pierce takes a slow step forward. “We’ll get him to the medics right away and you can give your mission report while they’re examining him. And then we’ll have the lab technicians examine you to make sure you haven’t caught anything. You’ve done just what you’re meant to do, it’s all right.”

“He has to be okay,” the asset says, uncertain. Unmoving.

“He’ll be fine, Soldier, I promise. Let’s just get him to the infirmary.” Pierce settles a hand on the shoulder that Rumlow isn’t dangling over, guiding the asset down the hall. “You’ve done very well caring for him, he’ll be just fine. And now the doctors can take over where you left off.”

Rumlow holds in a cough for fear of sending the asset back into a panic. Maybe the doctors can just keep him knocked out until he can breathe again. That’d be nice.

**Author's Note:**

> When the Soldier suggests perforating Rumlow's eardrums, he is referring to an actual medical procedure, myringotomy, which is usually followed by [the insertion of ear tubes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ww7IA2pbWTk). Of course, it's usually performed in sterile conditions and with proper medical equipment as well.
> 
> The movie Rumlow remembers is _It's a Wonderful Life._ There's a scene in the film's prologue in which the druggist sends George Bailey to deliver a prescription for diphtheria.


End file.
